LAURA-BIANCA PASCA - POEMS

 Laura-Bianca Pasca is a Romanian first-year Chemistry student at the University of Oxford. Her dream is to one day combine science with her passion for writing, given that the first deals with the substance of the world, while the latter helps her understand her own better. 

​Left to chance

I’m silent
when you give me too much;
I can grow quiet
when I get an excuse.
I don’t hear it 
in droning
and I silence it
in chants.
It’s useless, there,
in dead intervals
and the times that call
for my hands-
already inaccurate,
thanks to its demands.
But it will keep on calling;
sometimes I will help it
and call it, myself.
The murmur remains
in silence,
vibrating in bone.
Its voice is left to chance.

​

Parting
​

There is a part of me 
that will go in the circuit.
This part will work
slit-eyed
to see the small things
it works with
and it will smile,
happy to do its part.

And the other-
part in slumber-
will always keep an eye open,
peep at the circuit,
laugh at it
and maybe tweak a few wires
here and there
where it displeases its eye,
just for its eye.
It will know
when its watch weakens
and see there is a part of it
that goes in its own circuit
and keeps it at work-
this circuit,
right here,
behind my eye.

​

.
​

They all fall along with me
towards that point.

               - the point, drained,
               is there,
              missed.
                - a whole row of limp hands
 is there 
              - and all thoughts of imprudent heads.
              - you are there,
although you weren’t for the fall.
or because you weren’t.


And then,
there’s a second
when all of you crash together
and get the air all out of me.
I swear it’s out, sharp
and blowing
towards that point. 
                 - this, here,
was there, too
and saw it all
and wanted its finality.
It is its end. There.

​Moulting

Crumbs and peels were scraped on the table,
with harsh scratches of cuticuled cutlery;
crumbs that left no trail;
crusted shells beneath my palm
to make it itch;
shedded blisters, 
pouches of entrails-
all empty.
They moved with the linen
as it sloped on my side 
or yours;
they rolled over the shifting folds of your belly.
And as you folded your hands 
and stretched them to the crumbling itch
- I hoped they wouldn't reach for the bald patch
in the middle of your head-,
the rashes of your elbows pointed at me,
spewing dusted skin.
They didn't bleed, 
parched as they were,
as parched as we are.

And you go on chewing words...

​

Until next time
​

What could I tell you in a few words?
I know you are waiting
and your smile says
that you know there is something to say,
but I keep looking at the waiters
circling the tables.
They press their lips, waiting
with a pen in their hand
and I think of how silence
runs farther than a few untruths.
I remember what you said;
so I grab words
and try to gather them in time.

No, I haven't looked over the menu yet.
And it's been so long
since you sat down at the table...!

Look, if I could, I would take you
to the place where I stay in the afternoon.
If you had time,
we would sit at the table-
with a few misplaced glasses-
not of lemonade, I'm afraid-
and with their lenses slightly smudged,
but I'd clean them quickly,
in a breath.
And I'd show you the passage in the book
and my collection of words
and you'd understand, surely,
that they come as easy as a smile,
they come running,
in a breath.
If I could, I'd show you
and you wouldn't need to ask;
but as it is, I have to go
hunting for meaning.

I haven't looked over the menu enough,
but everyone serves lemonade.
So we order two.
I hope you still have time
to sit with me...

Waiters pass with empty plates
and my mouth is sour.

Do you keep smiling to hide
the prickles on your tongue?
Maybe an acerbic mouth
shouldn't be allowed
to speak.
-forget what I say,
I only play with the straw
and mix around in my glass.
It's too good a distraction
and every time I send a breath
vapours form and I wipe them
with my hand.


After a few words,
we should forget our glasses.

So tell me, how did you even
find it?
Do you, too, go hunting around
with a pen in your hand?
At any rate,
don't press your lips just yet.
I could invent one
-is that what you did?-
hoping it will not bloom into more
or perish in the fringes of delusion.
Then I'd set it next to others,
the way they do in books.
I'd even put a price next to it,
if people still bother to look in menus.
-don't laugh! I might get enough
and order them in a list.

I think I already had too much,
I need to set my glass aside.
Perhaps you have to leave as well,
it's been so long...

Until next time,
you might remember what I said
and conclude what you gathered.
There might be your meaning,
under the appearance of mine
or there could be a smile
waiting for an answer.

The waiter rushes with our glasses
balanced in a corner on his plate.

I hope to see you soon enough
on a warm afternoon
and I'd have mine ready,
in a breath
I won't lose in the vapours of a cold glass.

Good to see you, it's been so long,
until next time ...!